


I Want a Little Sugar For My Bowl

by HaleHole (SweetFanfics)



Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe, Alternate Universe - Coffee Shops & Cafés, Bad First Impressions, M/M, One-Shot, werewolves can control their shift
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-10-24
Updated: 2015-10-24
Packaged: 2018-04-27 23:21:53
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,249
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5068825
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/SweetFanfics/pseuds/HaleHole
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Stiles hates making the comparison but there’s no other one that is even half as apt. He feels like a fucking sheep that’s about to torn apart by rabid wolves. Or wolf. Werewolf.</p>
            </blockquote>





	I Want a Little Sugar For My Bowl

**Author's Note:**

> Aaaaah, I’ve made a poor attempt at this amazing idea! Corresponding [fanarts](http://duckhymn.tumblr.com/post/56487703617/werewolf-cafe-au-some-stress-relief-drawing) here and [here](http://duckhymn.tumblr.com/post/59752244954/i-love-looking-at-the-wolf-cafe-drawing-because-i-can).

Stiles hates making the comparison but there’s no other one that is even  _half_ as apt. He feels like a fucking sheep that’s about to torn apart by rabid wolves. Or wolf.  _Were_ wolf. Any second now, the irate looking werewolf is going to look up from his menu, at Stiles, and realized that Stiles is the clumsy waiter who had accidentally spilled hot coffee on his head last week.

Or well. Stiles isn’t an expert on werewolves or reading their expressions when they’re in their strange ‘we look like wolves from the neck up but we’re walking around on two legs’ form that the creatures take inside the cafe, but he’s 73% certain that this is the same werewolf as before. There haven’t been a lot of customers coming in who prefer the dark shirt, leather jacket, jeans and boots combo that this werewolf is wearing.

Back to the point.

 

This previously disgruntled customer is going to look up any second now, glare at Stiles and maybe eat him instead of giving his order. If he’s lucky. If he’s unlucky, Stiles is going to be subject to a long and painful death. When the sharp red eyes glance up at him, Stiles holds his breath and tries not to use his notepad as a shield.

He flinches when the werewolf does a clear double take and growls at him. “Hi,” Stiles greets with a watery smile. “Nice to see you again! My name is Stiles and I’ll be your server this fine evening. What can I get you?”

Now, he’s tried telling Scott about how this summer job involves actual werewolves (with poor success if he's honest because who'd believe that werewolves are real?). But he hadn’t gotten around to telling his best friend the weirdest part of it all (beyond the fact that werewolves and other creatures are real) - werewolves have their own language.

It’s a series of guttural growls and noises that sound like a mess of growls and snarls that doesn't sound _anything_ like a language to Stiles. Which is actually a really shitty comparison to be honest because okay, so it sounds really rough because of all the growling that goes on but it’s still kind of pretty? There's a melodic quality to their conversations that's vaguely soothing in terms of background noises.

But yeah, not only are werewolves real but have their own language as well! And Stiles has had to learn it. Deaton, the cafe owner, has been giving him a crash course in the language but it’s tough going. Still, Stiles thinks that he’s doing pretty good. He can do the basic greeting and knows how to pronounce and recognize the menu, along with a few more phrases that Deaton thought he ought to know. 

The 'words’ sound really weird coming from here. Deaton keeps telling him that he needs to growl a lot deeper if he wants to enunciate properly. It’s a work in progress problem that one. Deaton has banned him from speaking in  _were_ in the cafe until he’s figured out how to properly roll his R’s.

Leather jacket werewolf is glaring at him as he slaps the menu close and growls out, “ _Coffee. Black_.” Stiles quickly scribbles the order down and runs away, staring at the kitchen so that he won’t give into temptation and do something stupid. Like turn to look back. Or go back and apologize for dumping coffee on him last week.

Well. Maybe that last one isn’t that stupid. He ought to apologize for that. Once the werewolf is ready to leave, Stiles will get Deaton to come out and apologize for him because Stiles wants to make sure that the man understands his apology. Or is it a little speciest of him to assume that the were doesn’t know English?

He’s pondering that thought when the order is up. Stiles picks the tray up and carefully navigates his way through the tables and chairs. All of his attention is focused on the tray and the coffee cup perched in the middle of it. There will be no spilling of hot beverages on customers today, no siree Bob!

With all the care in the world, Stiles places the heavy mug in front of the werewolf and declares, “Your order, Sir.” His smile this time is a lot more honest and happy when he asks, “Would you like anything else?”

The werewolf looks down at the coffee before he replies, “ _ᶈᶍᵭᶎᵳᶃᶮ have ᶳ᷆᷀ᶛᶣᵾᵫᵳᶵ₳∆₩_?” 

Staring at the werewolf, Stiles feels the first threads of panic beginning to wrap around his body. He’s understood maybe one word in that sentence. Something about… wanting something? A quick look around reveals the fact that he’s the only one on the floor at present. Oh where’s Erica when he needs her?

Feeling more and more flustered as the red eyes glow at him, Stiles stammers, “Er… what… did you say? I didn't catch that." 

It’s easy to see that the werewolf is getting pissed off. And Stiles isn’t just talking about his eyes. It’s all in the body language - the bristling fur, deep growling rising out his throat, the snarling teeth. And this werewolf’s body language is screaming one thing - bloody murder. Or maybe that’s just a mix of his heightened sense of paranoia and self preservation instincts.

" _₰ᵳᶎᶓᶃ ᶙᶣᶥᶳ᷆᷀ᶛᶣᵾᵫᵳ ᶵ₳∆₩!_ “ The werewolf says, snapping his teeth at Stiles. His white,  _sharp_ teeth.

That severs the connection between Stiles’ brain and his mouth. The fear of being hurt or worse makes him speak before he can think about what he’s about to say, "I don’t speak wolf!” He exclaims, holding the tray against his chest.

There’s a long moment of silence that Stiles  _prays_ that he’s imagining before something truly startling happens. With no fuss or muss, the werewolf in front of him  _shifts_ from their wolf form into their  _criminally_ attractive  **human**  form.

Stiles’ eyes widen at they taken in the pretty green-hazel eyes, the sharp jawline, the scruff he wants to rub against like a cat in heat and the seriously judgemental eyebrows. He is startled out of his trance when the man all but yells, “I  _said_ sugar! For my coffee!” He’s still reeling from shock when the man falls back into his seat grumbling, “How can you work in this cafe and not know how to speak wolf?”

 

That snaps Stiles out of his trance. He gives the guy a scathing glare of his own.  _“Wow!"_ he exclaims, "Excuse you! Why can't  _you_ speak human instead? It’s not like you don’t know how to converse in English and it  _clearly_ wouldn’t kill you so get off my back, dude! I only found out about you guys’ and your weird lingo a  _week_ ago!”

Wow, what does it say about him that the angry look he’s getting  _now_ is making Stiles feel hot under the collar? He’s really hoping that this guy is gonna grab him, kiss him hard and push him down on the table before he pushes his pa- 

Someone clears their throat behind him, making Stiles jumps so hard that he bumps into the table. Thankfully, the coffee mug doesn’t tip over (the napkin holder is another story) and everyone involved is left unscalded. Deaton stands there with a tiny sugar pot in hand and a bland expression on. “Is everything alright here?" 

Stiles eyes the werewolf, wondering if he’s going to complain or anything. But surprisingly, the man nods. "Just fine. Is that the sugar?”

The dark skinned man places the sugar pot near the coffee mug before he gives Stiles a mild warning look. “Don’t you have other tables to wait on Stiles?”

Whoops. Stiles jumps into action, ears still focused on the hottie who is now engaged in a conversation with Deaton. He’s nearly out of earshot when Deaton refers to him by name. Derek. That’s a nice name.  _Very_ nice name. Stiles bets that it would sound  _awesome_ when moaned.

Who said that. Which voice in his head said that. Stiles was going to murder it.

 

\--

“Like I said in the start, given that Derek _is_ a werewolf, you'll be better off learning their language directly from him. I’ll leave you to it then. I've got some business of my own to attend too,” Deaton says, smoothly walking out of the tiny office, ignoring the stunned into silence pair behind him.

Stiles opens his mouth to protest because  _no!_ He doesn’t want to be stuck in the same room as Derek (because of reasons that may or may not involve a wet dream he’d had of the werewolf’s human form. Stiles pleads the fifth on the matter). It’s one of the  _last_ things that Stiles wants to do!

He raises his finger up, mouth flapping soundless in the hopes that some words will come out of their own accord but Deaton is going, going, gone. Stiles stares at the closed door and wonders exactly how screwed he is. (His stupid libido cheerfully hopes it’ll be hard enough that he limps the next day. The bastard.)

Derek sighs loud enough to capture his attention. He’s in his human form right now, staring at Stiles like he’s dealing with an irritating insect of some kind. Like a fuzzy caterpillar. “Alright.” the man states, taking a step back so that he can fall back into his abandoned seat. “Might as well get started.”

He can go along with that logic - the sooner this torture starts, the sooner it ends right? Only… 55 more minutes of being stuck in a small room with a sinfully attractive werewolf who he’s dreamed about. Stiles can do this without making an ass out of himself. Maybe. 

Carefully, the teenager perches on the edge of the second seat and waits. Derek taps his fingers against the table top. Stiles has a difficult time keeping his focus on Derek’s face area instead of the digits that were featured prominently in last night’s wet dream. “How much wolf do you know?” Derek asks.

Wincing hard, Stiles rubs the back of his neck and answers, “Just what’s on the menu and the basic stuff. Greetings, thanks, good bye.” The face Derek pulls shouldn’t be interesting to his dick but it is. Is there  _any_ expression that the werewolf can’t make look hot? 

“Show me.” Derek says, shifting into his werewolf form. Stiles eyes the sharp claws curling around dark leather and idly wonders how the material holds against the sharp claws. 

 _Urk_. Stiles licks his lips, clears his throat and tries to remember how Deaton had told him to say ‘Thank you’. Clearing his throat once more for good measure, Stiles says, “ _Thank you_.”

A ripple passes through Derek, like his entire fur just got rubbed the wrong way. His pointy ears go to the side and almost flat as he raises a clawed hand up to his snout and sighs, “ _That was terrible_.”

Wondering if he ought to repeat the low growls, Stiles asks, “Should I… did I say that wrong? It sounded like you said something else?” Derek shakes his head, ears pointing up again. “Okay. Did I say it right then?”

The werewolf shakes his head again before he growls out something that sounds close to what Stiles has tried to say. "Should I…“ Stiles asks, pointing at Derek. Derek nods, claws now resting on his knees. Taking a deep breath in, Stiles makes a valiant second attempt and nearly bites his own tongue.

 

Derek sighs loudly and covers his eyes while Stiles tries to figure out if he didn’t _actually_  bite his tongue. "That bad?” the teenager asks, feeling very much like an idiot when Derek shifts back into human and glares at him. The older man is  _oozing_ 'unimpressed’ at him, like Stiles has gone down from fuzzy caterpillar status to lazy slug.

“We need to start with the basics. Teach you the alphabet, pronunciation  enunciation.” Derek replies, eyes already distant in thought. There were a few choice dirty jokes on the tip of his tongue that Stiles wanted to drop but he doubted that Derek would appreciate them. He didn’t seem to be the type to appreciate being hit on through dirty jokes. Especially by a teenager. Which raised a rather obvious question that has been plaguing Stiles for a week.

Nervously tapping his fingers against his thighs, Stiles asks, “Out of curiosity, how old are you?" 

With a blink, Derek returns from whatever place he’s been in for the past minute. "What?" 

"Your age.” Stile repeats, “How old are you?”

“23.”

It’s Stiles turn to blink in surprise. That’s only four years older than him.  _Score~!_   Wait.  _“Really_?” His voice might be a little too incredulous but hey, he’s really surprised by this information! “I thought you were like 30!” The utterly bewildered look on Derek’s face is just… Stiles wants to put his fingers on that open mouth. Amongst other things. 

Derek just stares at him, head lightly shaking from side to side as though he can’t believe what he’s just heard. "Cause… the beard.“ Stiles explains meekly, one hand miming a goatee over his own chin. There’s a loud bang from outside almost immediately after he finishes, followed by a loud peel of laughter that can only be Erica.

Did she…  _oh crap_. Stiles cringes, hides his face behind a hand and curses werewolf hearing, his damned mouth and Deaton for putting him into this whole situation in the first place.


End file.
